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flotsam and jetsam on a sea of logorrhea

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The blue klaxons sounded on the SS Voyeur and parents scrambled their children to robotic nannies before making their way to the sex chapel where a crowd was gathering under the orgone blue dome, voices calling out deviantions.

The gathered in the sex chapel gravitated towards their favorite deviancy and tapped deep into their psyches for the primordial carnality that lay under the epidermis of civilization. Exterior wear was shed for the seal-slick juices of the flesh. Large eunuchs beat on great drums and small eunuchs stroked bass harps. Castrated midgets cavorted with bells in rhythm as the dome slid open its blue current to reveal the star-shattered inky black. To the beat flesh moved slowly in minds losing thought but for that of pleasure in the now. Large arms pummeled animal hide towards a booming crescendo, rail thin fingers a frenzy on throbbing strings, short legs punctuating each tingle with stamps. An ocean of bodies moved in great ciphered knots. A blue haze wafted from pituitaries, navels, the anal circuit, hissed from hammering lingams and squelching yonis, to fill the dome with crackling blue energy. The receded sheath of the dome caught this smoke, absorbed it. Outside in the vacuum, the Reich Drive, pushed past the minimum threshold, buzzed, starting its intricate process.

The Reich Drive was formulated by the enigmatic and elusive Werner Schlagjob, thought by Reichian devotees as the reincarnation of the Father of Orgone himself. His treatise on Reich’s lost papers rocked the scientific community, enraged the oil and coal cartels, and shattered multiple political and religious ideologies. The Drive converted the energies from the accumulator to workable electrical energy, and this gave mankind an unprecedented freedom.

Culture on Earth changed drastically. Orgone accumulaters were cranked out by the thousands, the century long dependence on fossil fuels finally severed. Taboos were overturned and religions embraced the sex industry. Bar mitzvahs featured sex professionals to usher the recipient towards adulthood. The onset of menses were celebrated by long dormant pagan fertility rites, the events of which were fiercely guarded by its participants. Ancient hippies, bolstered by longevity technologies, stayed in their enclaves and said through shrouds of smoke, “We wanted free love but, man, even this is too far out for us, man.”

Each home was off the grid and completely self-dependent. A simpler, more pastoral life descended upon the peoples of the Earth, this virtually unlimited energy allowing them time to pursue their heart’s folly. Indeed, many found themselves elbow deep in the loam, tending gardens of sweet fruits, succulent vegetables, intoxicating and medicinal herbs, or herding abundant quantities of farm beasts on the asphalt of overgrown megacities. Rain soaked days and moon dappled nights were spent thrusting and moaning and grabbing yes don’t stop yes that yes under the blue sparks of orgone accumulators. The crime rate dwindled, confining itself to crimes of passion, monetary greed and theft becoming a thing of the past.

All was good.

Then Man’s eyes turned outward. Romantic notions of the stars had always existed in his heart from his moist beginnings in the primordial soup, and now the very possible idea of entering space seduced his sentiment. Chemical rockets brought orgone accumulators and massive arrays of Reich Drives into Earth orbit. There, ion engines and the Drive were wedded, held in conjunction by the accumulators. In theory, the energies of people, ramped up by an indeterminable factor by sexual activity, collected by the accumulators would be enough to propel the ship in the void.

The first sex ships were radioactive shielded tin cans piloted by expendable burn-outs outfitted with second rate equipment, cosmonautic training, and first rate experience in the sex industry. The Kármán linewas littered with the frosted corpses of Man’s first efforts. The pioneers who managed to pass the moon in their cold ships caligulated under the red eye of Jove, fucked languidly awash in Neptune’s blue hue, their orgone accumulator flickering with cerulean sparks. These ships continued outward until their sensors stopped transmitting, the fates of the occupants lost forever. The third ship sent out, the SS One Night Stand, famously passed the Kuiper belt before cutting off.

Lessons were learned and mistakes mended. The amount of occupants per mass mattered and had to remain above a certain threshold, if there were to be enough energy to power the ship. Families became central in ship life, if these ships were to keep going. The first generation ship was an experiment that remained in Earth orbit for fifty years before it was deemed a success and sent on its way. Many signed up for the stars and crept across the inky black in these large titanium ships, knowing very well that home was where the heart went.

Exhausted and panting the people peeled themselves from their partners, bade them a good night and went home to their children as the SS Voyeur penetrated deeper into the cosmos.

He kept on punching the mechanoid’s head until sparks sprang cold arcs of blue neon from the steel glint of its crushed skull. He reeled backwards, his ruined hand dropping giant splotches of blood onto the asphalt. He cradled it, twisted it in his shirt. Automatic janitor units bristling with vacuums, scrubbers, dizzying arrays of chemicals buzzed from the shadows to congregate around his feet, some scuttling like electronic crabs upon others of its own ilk to clean the blood that fell on on their plastic carapaces. More sophiscated janitor units ambled over and pulled apart wire by wire and chip by chip the twisted form at his feet. Shortly there was nothing left but his breath in the cold air and a solitary janitor unit stubbornly laboring to contain the hemoglobin that still dripped from his limp fingers. He ran a finger along the brim of his fedora and adjusted his tie, plucked at his lapel with his good hand. He pulled a cigarette into his mouth and walked home under the guttering neon signs that fell like mirage onto the rain slick boulevard. The janitor unit bumbled to and fro at his heels like an electronic stray.

The mother plays with her son, swinging him in swooping airplane movements, holding a wary hand behind him as he climbs the monkey bars, dashing down the plastic slide. The swings creak with their exuberance. The see-saw squeaks with their energetic vigor. Sandcastles in the sandbox. She chases her whooping son from tree to tree. Her laughter echoes from the horizon.

A loose chord of parents are watching her as their children play on the park grounds. On their faces are painted spectra of emotion. Some are holding their hands to their open mouths.

“When I bring up his father, he becomes very upset and says he is nothing like his father and goes home to drink, which makes him very much like his father.”

He snapped awake in the frigid night, chest heaving. Moonlight poured through the window into his small room, splashing silver light on his narrow bed, the bottle of rum on a single chair, jacket on the coat hanger. His breath steamed cold blue picture-scenes and in all of them he died. He shivered. “I’ve been in the reality game too long. I need a vacation,” he muttered and turned in bed, throwing the blanket over his shoulders.

“Poor chap. Got his head in the sand. Liable to rip it out, if he tried, and he’d be running ’round like a headless chicken.”

“He’s been through enough. He’s been—well, is—everybody. I wish we could cut him a break.”

This time the Time Traveller woke to the sepulchral fog that flooded the countryside to drown the town square, and from his window he watched a cat on a ledge paw the condensation. The fog swirled and eddied: he could empathize. The moon, a grinning half dollar, lay low in the sky. In the silver scene he pulled his jeans on, slipped into a shirt, took his jacket, and went out of the door.

The fire gloamed full spectrum in the bent light, splashing rainbow warmth onto the cool figures huddled in the night. They were four in number, and ceramic bowls in their cupped hands were steamed mushroomy muskiness. They sat in comfortable solidarity in their status of outcasts from each of their respective cultures, and at the foremost, they sat as friends at the brink of adventure.

“I don’t know if I can do this.” This was Anchor, an elfin faced womanchild, slender and willowy from her childhood in the low gravities. Her eyes were green pools of mossy fear. Charlie, the youngest and the catalyst of the group, with soft accord said, “This can’t be done without the entire consent of your being.” He looked at her with intense endearment. “Think on it a moment, and if you still feel fear, put down that bowl and sit with us tonight, without worry.” Anchor smiled, showing small teeth. She said, “I’ll do it, Charlie, because I trust you.”

Fahey, his face a constellation of freckles under a dusk of shock-red hair, grinned with relief. He winked at Anchor, his eye bulging grotesquely with refraction. Anchor and Manara, the golden skinned slow girl who sat across from Charlie, giggled. Charlie chuckled and brushed the brown hair from his eyes. “Now you understand this many-monthed blue mead from the mushroom climes induces visions in the soul,” he said with a ritual litany. “Do not be afraid. We are in the company of friends. When in doubt, turn your gaze to your neighbors.” His comrades nodded with sober assent. Charlie raised his steaming bowl and said, “Bottoms up!”

The friends sat as the familiar jostle and bustle of their throbbing reality twitched slowly into implacable smoothness. Anchor was reminded of the crest of wind back in the airs of her childhood. Fahey knew the burnished oak walls of his village over which he would run his young, callused hands. Manara remembered her mother’s slow breast and its creamy froth. Charlie just smiled imperceptibly, as if he saw much, much more. The swaying trees solidified into warm organic marble, and the rainbow fell from the fire with a crackle. The dirt and stones ceased their pulsing. Anchor, eyes wide with child’s gaze, let the smooth limn of the world run down her body like so many crystal waters. “Charlie. I-it’s so beautiful…”

she peers through the stalks and brushes the cornsilk from her cerulean gaze with golden hands…small green boys caper in the tall rushes under a bloated red sun…a lagoon boiling with silver ripples as dark things twist in its depths…line of labor in the desert, plucking burning bushes to be thrown in long yellow bins…a trail of bubbles etching a line of blue breath as the fish god passes through its medium…orange men with long slender wings gambol above a watery marble, trailing their fingers through the russet clouds…black basalt is the relief which outlines these small, fur white people ascending the mountain…girl children with sad eyes huddle under weak shelters as it rains green frogs and blue snakes…a field ruined by grasshoppers and the wheat’s ward hangs from a tree in hopeless abandon…its corrugated steel rusted, its timbers rotted, its plaster and paint peeling, its streets and windows cracked, its buildings and stores crumbled, its soul decaying like the corpse on the road into the city…a hum of computer in an empty room that smells of morning coffee…roaches desperately race across linoleum, a black flag at their rear…shoes, countless matches and mismatches, fill the warehouse with a musky smell…candles gutter as the black nights blows through the red drapes…women weave baskets from the slender hairs of yellow-eyed cattails that root and lap at pond’s edge…songs that echo through its drafty streets, and a long dead philosopher asks if a tree can be heard when it falls with nobody around to hear…blue and orange turtles leashed to a sapling with bright yellow string trundle in a circle as the laughter of children echo over the hill…neon squirrels flicker through the park at night…old men sit on knurled steps to reminisce about the green days of youth and sip tea in a cloud of smoke…tin cans and aluminium kitchenware on small paraffin stoves splash ethereal blue on the walls of the cardboard shanty…the circle of stars, through the quickening ever-rushing fall of night and swell of day, wobble as the years pass…lazy dust in the lethargic bedroom…thin and bent, his spectacles reflecting monitorlight, he taps slowly at the keyboard

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Open my brain. See what intergalactic interintradimensional brane bending yuga skipping Necronomicon summoned evil sucking vortex of time travel spills out, what alien thoughts curl in the thoughtscape like grasping beanstalks twisting through the mists of the macrocosm hiding in microcosmic dark bubbles of stories foaming substrate for electric shoots of existence. Open it. Open it and see what spills out. See what spills out of yours.